


Rookie and Jailbait Take On The World

by theappleppielifestyle



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, NO SEX HAPPENS, THEY'RE TAKING IT SLOW, just kissing, steve is 24, tony is seventeen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You really should be in school, you know.”</p><p>“Why would I be there when I could be here, solving crimes with my favourite rookie?” Tony flashes a grin, and Steve’s stomach twists like it did on the first day.</p><p><i>Teenager,</i> Steve’s mind supplies. <i>Definitely not legal, stop doing fluttery things, stomach.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rookie and Jailbait Take On The World

**Author's Note:**

> from this prompt: 
> 
> "what do you think about an au where howard stark is the chief of police, tony is his teenage son and Steve is the cute new rookie who's always on the front desk. Tony comes in all the time to bug him and he's really cute and Steve has no clue how old he is and just thinks "is he even legal? shit i am going to be so fired and so arrested"

Looking back on it, Steve hardly remembers seeing Tony for the first time, since it was in the form of a glance before going back to the stacks of paperwork in front of him that were surely going to make him stay long past his shift ending.

 

But when the kid starts talking to the chief, that’s enough to tear Steve’s attention away, because no-one speaks to the chief like this kid is, all flippant and fake-cheer and sarcastic drawl.

 

Steve watches as Chief Stark notices his visitor and his expression bunches into one of annoyance. “Anthony-”

 

“Oh, good, we’re breaking out the full name early this time,” the kid- Tony- says, rolling his eyes.

 

They’re related, Steve realizes. He hadn’t noticed it with a glance, but they have the same colour eyes, and some of their facial features are the same. Instead of the full-grown goatee that Howard has, his kid- because it’s got to be his son, Steve doubts anyone else would have the gall to talk to Howard like that- Tony has a soul patch growing in. It looks good, Steve notes absently, nothing like some atrocities he’s seen growing on the teenagers that frequent the city buses.

 

“Anthony,” Howard repeats, and Tony cuts him off again.

 

“No, don’t tell me- you’re busy. Something came up. You’re going to have to cancel for the fifth week in a row.”

“That’s not fair,” Howard says, looking back down to the manilla folder open in front of him as he continues, “You know I can’t skip out on work, I’m the chief. My work here is more important than dinner.”

 

Steve can’t help the frown- Howard doesn’t seem very concerned he’s missed every dinner with his son for over a month, he’s even rifling through his files like he had been before Tony walked in. Steve understands they’re busy here at Brooklyn Nine-Nine, but Steve’s sure that if he had a kid, he’d make sure to skip out on work every once in a while to spend as much time with them as he could.

 

He tries to go back to his work, but when their voices start to rise, he gives up and at least attempts to be subtle about looking over at them. Everyone in the precinct is, at this point, and some are blatantly staring.

 

Howard’s scowling, only looking at Tony when he gets right in his face, which is when Tony backs up again. “Tony, really, don’t be a child about this.”

 

 _He_ is _a child_ , Steve thinks to himself. The kid can’t be more than seventeen or eighteen, definitely in high school, if the backpack is any indication. He’s also got his jaw set stubbornly, a little like what Steve’s seen Howard do sometimes when a case is getting to him.

 

“No, I get it, you’re busy,” Tony snaps. “It’s _fine_. I’ll have takeout, alone, _again_.”

 

Howard grits out a sigh, raising his hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, you become more and more insolent every day.”

 

“I don’t know why I even came in here,” Tony continues, talking over him and waving his hands. “You’re busy? Wow, I’m _shocked_. This is a grade-A shocker, I think I may faint from shock,” he says, and by this point he’s staggering, making Howard sigh louder.

 

Tony flings a hand to his forehead. “Quick, someone catch me-”

 

Steve startles when Tony bumps into the corner of his desk, and Tony looks surprised himself as he glances back to see what he walked into. His eyes go to the desk, and then up to Steve, and then he- then he grins, most of the tension forgotten, his limbs going loose.

 

The kid winks at him, says smoothly, “Oh, you can catch me anytime, soldier.”

 

“I,” Steve says. He clears his throat. He shouldn’t be getting flustered over being flirted with by a guy who is at least six years younger than he is. “I, uh. Right.”

 

“Anthony,” Howard snaps, and then the grin is gone as Tony turns to face him. Howard looks pissed off now, rather than weary. “Stop bothering Rogers, he’s one of our best. He has better things to do than put up with you.”

 

“No, dad, I think that’s you,” Tony replies, faux-sweetly, his fingers tapping the wood of Steve’s desk. “Rogers has time for me. Rogers and I have a _bond_ , dad, a special bond you wouldn’t know anything about since it’s beyond the levels of your comprehension. Don’t we, Rogers?”

 

“It’s Steve,” Steve manages, and Tony flashes another grin at him. Teenagers, Steve’s pretty sure, aren’t supposed to make Steve’s stomach twist like his is doing.

 

“Steve, then. We have a bond, don’t we, Steve?”

 

Steve opens his mouth- he’s not sure what he’s going to say, but he’s saved from embarrassing himself further by Howard saying, “None of us have time for this, Tony, least of all me. Stop it with this nonsense and leave us to do our work.”

 

Tony’s fingers stop tapping, and he visibly bites his tongue. This time his grin is brittle, forced, and Steve doesn’t like it half as much as the other one. “Fine,” Tony says, hiking his backpack further up his back. “I’ll see you at home, father dearest. Or not, if you’re still _busy_.”

 

Howard rolls his eyes at him, doesn’t even look at his son as he makes his way out of the precinct, slamming the door behind him. When the silence sets in, Howard says, “Sorry about that, everyone. My son can be a drama queen.”

 

That makes a few people laugh, and Steve drags up a smile for the chief’s benefit. He’s never had any reason to dislike the chief, he’s seemed nice enough, but this has him re-evaluating Howard. He’s awfully dismissive and rude to his son, even if his son is- uh, a bit impossible, if Steve’s first impression is anything to go by.

 

Also, incredibly hot. But Steve isn’t going to make that an official thought, it’s just something floating around in his head, because Steve has no interest in getting arrested.

 

Howard goes back into his office, closing the door behind him, and Steve goes back to his paperwork and quickly forgets all about what just happened as his mind is consumed by the weight of how much paperwork he has to do before tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

Steve wakes up to Sam slapping a folder down on his desk, and Steve bolts up in his chair.

 

“Wazzat? Wusshappenin?”

 

Sam snorts. “You fell asleep at your desk, man. Again.”

 

Steve absorbs this and nods, trying to clear his mind of sleep. He yawns, his jaw cracking around it, and smother it with his hand. “Time izzit?”

 

Humming, Sam checks his watch. “Eleven.”

 

“PM?”

 

“No, it’s this dark at midday,” Sam drawls. He slaps Steve’s shoulder with a thick folder. “Go home, Steve.”

 

Steve shakes his head, picking up his pen from where it had rolled out of his hand while he slept. “Gotta finish these reports before tomorrow.”

 

“Well, you got an hour before tomorrow.”

 

“So I better get cracking.”

 

“Get cracking?” Sam laughs. “What are you, from the 40s or something?”

 

Steve makes a face at him. “I’m two years younger than you, Sam, so unless you’re suddenly ninety-something-”

 

“I was being sarcastic,” Sam says, and rolls around his desk in his swivel-chair so he’s sitting next to Steve.

 

Steve eyes the chair enviously. You had to be in the force for five years before you got a swivel chair, and every time he sees Sam’s it makes the crappy-chair-induced-twinge in his back more obvious.

 

He stretches, trying to get comfortable in his crappy chair before dubbing it a futile cause and slumping over his forms. “Ugh.”

 

“Paperwork is a bitch,” Sam agrees. “First year’s the worst, rookie. You’ll grow into it.”

 

“Ugh,” Steve mutters again, rubbing his forehead with the non-ink end of his pen. He starts scribbling in the designated boxes, blinking hard so the words don’t blur in front of his eyes. God, he needs to get a better sleep schedule.

 

He’s got half an hour and five pages to go when Sam nudges him in the knee with his foot, and Steve grunts in reply. “What.”

 

“Did you see the chief’s son come in earlier?”

 

Steve pauses, unable to concentrate on two things at once with how much sleep he hasn’t gotten. “Tony, right?”

 

“Anthony,” Sam corrects him. “But apparently no-one calls him that but his dad.”

 

“His mom doesn’t call him that?”

 

Sam shrugs. “I’ve never met her, she doesn’t come around often. I asked Tony about it once, he said she’s busy with other stuff. I don’t think they’re a very close-knit family, y’know.”

 

Steve nods. Two parents, both so busy with other things that they don’t have time for their teenage son. “Poor kid.”

 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. “Guy might be young, but he’s smart as hell and can chew you out like _that_ ,” Sam snaps his fingers, “if he’s so inclined. I made a comment last year that he didn’t like and the little dude tore me down before I knew what was going on.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“I cried in the bathroom afterwards,” Sam nods, and now the bastard is swivelling in his damn swivel chair. Steve narrows his eyes at it, and Sam laughs.

 

“Hell no, man. You gotta do your time to get one of these babies.”

 

“My back hurts so much,” Steve whines, and Sam claps him on the shoulder.

 

“Goes away after the first year with your very own swivel chair.”

 

“Just let me have a go,” Steve pleads.

 

Sam looks around the precinct- the only other person here is Romanoff. “Hey, Nat!”

 

She looks up from her computer. “Yeah?”

 

“Want to do a swivel race with me and Steve?”

 

Her lips quirk. Steve knows where she got her reputation from, has seen it in action more times than he can remember, but he’s always grateful that she let them under the wire to see that she wasn’t as emotionless as everyone thinks. “I’m always up for a swivel race, Wilson.”

 

After persuading Steve he can do the rest of his paperwork afterwards, they each grab a fire extinguisher and sit on a swivel chair and count down from five before letting the fire extinguishers rip.

 

Sam wins, but only by a millisecond, Steve and Natasha slamming to the wall just as Sam lets out a triumphant whoop.

 

 

 

 

 

Steve is doing paperwork- surprise, surprise- when he hears something knock into his desk and he looks up to see Chief Stark’s son grinning at him from a swivel chair.

 

“How did you get one of those,” is the first question out of Steve’s mouth.

Tony shrugs. “Stole it from some cop,” he says, and leans forwards on his elbows, dropping his backpack near his feet. “How’s my favourite rookie,” he croons, and Steve has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop his smile.

 

“I’m fi-” he stops, eyes catching on the clock that is set into the wall. “It’s one in the afternoon.”

 

Tony blinks. His eyes are big, bigger than his father’s. “I can see it’s your observation skills that really put you ahead of the others.”

 

“You should be in school,” Steve accuses. “You should- why are you not in school?”

 

Tony starts slowly spinning in his swivel chair, and Steve grabs it to still it. “Why aren’t you in school?”

 

Tony sighs, long and loud. “Maybe they’re not good enough for me, Steve. Have you ever considered that?”

 

Before Steve can respond, Tony grabs the nearest file and starts flipping through it. “Ooh, a robbery. Dull.” He tosses it back on the pile. “Anything exciting, Steve? You guys work homicide sometimes, right? You poor, poor rookie. I bet you’ve hardly been in the field yet. Haven’t gotten any action.”

 

“Sam lets me tag along sometimes,” Steve protests, and Tony pouts. Steve’s gaze absolutely doesn’t linger on his bottom lip.

 

“Poor rookie,” Tony sighs, and then sits up straight, eyes going thoughtful. “I’m going to get you a case.”

 

“Chief Stark says I have to wait another month or two.”

 

Tony scoffs. “Howard, Schmoward. I’m not gonna get it from him.”

 

“Then where are you-”

 

“I have my ways, Steve,” Tony says, and he’s starting to say something else when he sees something over Steve’s shoulder and grimaces. “Shit.”

 

Steve says, “What,” and is quickly answered by Sam saying, “Give me back my damn chair, Mini Stark-”

 

“See you,” Tony says to Steve, and then he’s grabbing his backpack and making a run for it.

 

Sam sits in his chair as they watch Tony haul ass, and makes a face. “Kid messed up my butt grooves.” He wiggles in his seat, trying to get his butt grooves back to their rightful places. “What’d he say to you?”

 

Tony’s out of sight now, but Steve continues watching the door. “He said he was going to get me a case?”

 

Sam snorts, rolling his chair so he’s beside Steve. “Well, guess you’re gonna have your hands full from now on.”

 

Steve looks over at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“Say what you want about Mini Stark, the chair stealing bastard, but when he says he’s going to do something, you bet your ass it’s going to happen.” Sam claps his shoulder. “Looks like you’re gonna get a case, rookie. And an exciting one, too, if my read on Tony is right. I don’t think that guy can sit still for long.”

 

 

 

 

 

When Danvers tells him he has his first case, Steve has to put on a surprised face when he thanks her.

 

It’s a homicide, because of course Tony got him a homicide. Someone tortured a teenager before strangling her and leaving her on the steps of her parent’s house with a coin pushed into her open hand.

 

“You had to get me a weird one,” Steve says when he looks up around lunchtime to find Tony grinning at him from a swivel chair. “You really should be in school, you know.”

 

“Why would I be there when I could be here, solving crimes with my favourite rookie?” Tony flashes a grin, and Steve’s stomach twists like it did on the first day.

 

 _Teenager_ , Steve’s mind supplies. _Definitely not legal, stop doing fluttery things, stomach_.

 

On his swivel chair, Tony scoots over so he’s beside Steve and peers at the open folder, and at the pictures from the crime scene. “Yeech. What a creep. You think he’s gonna do it again?”

 

“Let’s hope not,” Steve says. “But I don’t think this is the first time he killed. He was very precise, he thought this out before he did it.”

 

Tony rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve twitches. Tony either doesn’t notice or he ignores it. “You think he’s a serial killer? Exciting.”

 

“And terrible,” Steve supplies.

 

Tony nods. Steve feels his chin dig into his shoulder. It’s- not unpleasant. “Well, yeah, but exciting for us.”

 

“But still terrible.”

 

“But still terrible,” Tony relents, scooting his chair closer. “Hey, turn the page.”

 

Steve does. Tony makes an interested sound.

 

“We have no leads,” Steve tells him.

 

“Not yet,” Tony corrects him. “Hey, you know what we should do?”

 

“Take you back to school?”

 

Tony laughs. “You’re funny. No. We should go and see the crime scene.”

 

“I was going to do that later,” Steve says. “But I was going to go alone.”

 

“Aw, poor rookie,” Tony sighs. “All alone. On his lonesome.”

 

“You’re not coming.”

 

“So cute how you think you have a say in this.”

 

“Sam’s coming over here,” Steve says dryly, and grins when Tony bolts out of his chair, backpack slinging around his back. Tony stops when he looks around, noticing a distinct lack of Sam, and turns to Steve with a wounded expression.

 

“We’re already lying to each other? That’s not a good basis for a partnership, Steve.”

 

“We’re not partners,” Steve points out. “You’re not even old enough to join the force.”

 

Tony waves a hand. “Technicalities. Come on, I’ll even let you flash the cool lights.”

 

“You’re not coming,” Steve says, standing up. “In fact, I’m leaving now. Without you.”

 

Tony pouts, and Steve grins again.

 

“See you, Tony,” Steve calls behind him, and Tony follows him all the way out of the precinct, whining loudly about how he’d be able to help, how Steve’s so mean, how he’d totally rub Steve’s feet if he let him come along.

 

As he’s driving off, Steve looks into the rear-view mirror. Tony’s walking dejectedly in the opposite direction, and Steve tells himself it’s for the best.

 

 

 

 

“How the hell,” Steve says when he pulls up to the crime scene and sees Tony talking to another cop. Steve gets out of the car and walks over, and Tony sees him and beams.

 

“Steve! Just the guy I wanted to see.” Tony grabs Steve by the elbow. “Steve, this is FBI Agent Potts, she’s seeing if there are any prints. She also admires my ambition-”

 

“The kid shows up at every crime scene he thinks is exciting,” Agent Potts cuts him off. “Every time something weird happens, the Chief’s kid is always first on the scene and somehow _manages to get past the tape without anyone noticing_.”

 

 _She loves me_ , Tony mouths at Steve.

 

Agent Potts sees this and sighs. “I tolerate him,” she tells Steve, but she’s fighting a smile. “Sometimes he offers up something useful.”

 

Tony mock-gasps. “Sometimes? I busted open that drowning case last year-”

 

“He’s been helpful, on occasion,” Agent Potts says. “When he isn’t getting in the way.”

 

“How dare you. I never get in the way.”

 

“Good luck keeping him out of trouble,” Agent Potts tells Steve, and then leaves.

 

Steve stares at Tony. “How did you get here before me?”

 

“There’s this thing called a taxi,” Tony says. “Now come on, time’s a-wasting, we’ve got a murder to solve and a supposed serial killer to stop.”

 

 

 

 

‘Supposed’ serial killer turns to a confirmed serial killer when a week passes and another teenager turns up, strangled with a coin pushed into their hands, dumped on the steps of their parents’ house. Then another one the next week. And another the week after that.

 

Tony starts showing up more and more, sometimes after school hours and sometimes not, rocking up in a swivel chair or carrying a desk chair. Eventually Steve starts keeping an extra desk chair next to his desk. Tony whines about it, squirming and bitching and sometimes delegating to sit on the floor instead.

 

He’s a hard worker, Steve learns. Smart as a tack, quick to spot a clue and he comes to thought-out conclusions faster than a lot of trained cops Steve has met. He’s not so good with people, which gets him a few glares from the victim’s families- he wedges himself into conversations that he really shouldn’t be in, and skates over the fact that he’s not wearing a uniform and is a TEENAGER, and eventually Steve starts introducing him as a consultant because it gets the force less complaints.

 

Steve tells Tony repeatedly that he should get out of this, that he shouldn’t be in this, not this young. He tells him more firmly after things start getting more dangerous- their precinct starts getting threats, anonymous and persistent in the form of letters that warn them off finding the killer, describing vividly what will happen if they continue.

 

Once, they start yelling about it, when they’re in the police car after looking at yet another crime scene by the same guy. Steve is driving Tony back to school and Tony is yelling that he needs to _help_ , he’s in this now, and Steve is yelling back that Tony’s too young and he could get hurt.

 

“So could you!”

 

“It’s my JOB to get hurt,” Steve snarls. “I volunteered for this!”

 

“What do you think I did?”

 

“You are a TEENAGER,” Steve yells, because he can’t get too specific. Everyone refuses to give Steve a straight answer whenever he asks how old Tony actually is. “You shouldn’t be chasing after serial killers who, may I remind you, KILLS TEENAGERS WHO LIVE WHERE YOU DO.”

 

“Do you know how many teenagers live in Brooklyn? I’ll be fine, Steve.”

 

“Yeah, well you’re the only teenager who’s working this case-”

 

“Aha!” Tony jabs a finger at him. “You admit I’m working this case with you!”

 

“Against my repeated attempts to get you to stop, yes, you are. You’re working this case, and you shouldn’t be, because you’re a kid and you could get KILLED, Tony.”

 

“So what, you expect me to sit in school and-”

 

“YES.”

 

Tony throws up his hands. “I’m in this now! I can’t just-”

 

“God, your attendance must be awful. Go to school,” Steve says, maybe twisting his steering wheel too hard. “Learn. Bitch about your teachers. Do normal, teenager stuff.”

 

“I’m not a normal teenager!”

 

“Literally every teenager thinks that.” They stop at a red light and Steve shoves a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth. “Look, just- give it a few years. Please.”

 

“But I can help people _now_ ,” Tony says. “Why would I wait a few years when I can help people now?”

 

Steve is thankful they’re at a red light, because it gives him a chance to stare at Tony, the stubborn set of his jaw, the bright brown of his eyes, the mess of his dark hair, the soul-patch that Steve really shouldn’t find attractive. The _teenager_ that Steve really shouldn’t find attractive.

 

“The light’s green,” Tony mutters, slouching in his seat.

 

Steve swallows and turns back to the road. “Get your damn feet off my dash.”

 

Tony scowls and does.

 

He walks into the precinct after school gets out, and says, “Everyone’s always asking me why I get dropped off in a cop car at lunchtime.”

 

“What do you tell them,” Steve asks absently, trying to find a piece of paper he had accidentally lost amidst a dozen other papers.

 

“I tell them that the hot blonde driving the cop car is a rookie from the Brooklyn Nine-Nine.”

 

Steve hums.

 

“Also my boyfriend.”

 

Steve chokes on the gum he’s chewing, and continues choking as Tony laughs and slaps him on the back until Steve spits the gum out into the bin.

 

“Ugh,” Steve says, and spits for good measure. He looks up to where Tony’s eyes are shining with good humour. “Uh. Tony.”

 

“I’m aware you aren’t my boyfriend, thank you,” Tony says smoothly, dropping his backpack near his feet as he sits in his desk chair. “Unless,” he says, and Steve jumps when he feels a foot sliding up his leg.

 

“Stop it,” Steve says, and Tony laughs again, close to giggling.

 

“You sure?”

 

 _No_. “Yes,” Steve says, and Tony sighs, but withdraws his foot. It had gotten up to Steve’s thigh, and he tells himself it’s relief he’s feeling.

 

 

 

 

 

“You could get a restraining order,” Howard suggests to Steve one day, and Steve knows who he’s talking about instantly.

 

“He’s helpful,” Steve says, keeping his eyes on his work so he doesn’t snap and start shaking Howard.

  
Howard snorts. “He’s an annoying little shit, that’s what he is. You give the word, I’ll stop him from coming down here and bothering you.”

 

“He’s helpful,” Steve repeats, trying to force down the urge to stand up to the guy who called him an annoying little shit, even if it is his dad and Steve’s chief. “I’ve made a lot of progress on the case with his contribution.”

 

“Sure,” Howard says, and it’s the doubt in his voice that makes Steve lose it.

 

“He’s a good kid,” he says, voice firmer than he means it to be. “He’s smart and he’s kind and he’s _brilliant_ , and he deserves more support than you’re giving him. Not that you’re giving him any. Sir,” Steve adds as an afterthought.

 

Howard’s jaw locks, and Steve wishes he had stood up before he had said anything, because if he was standing he’d have an inch or two on Howard, but as it is, Howard’s staring down at Steve in his chair. “I don’t think it’s any of your damn business how I treat my kid, Rogers.”

 

“No,” Steve agrees. “But he’s my friend, so that makes it my business, Sir.”

 

“He’s your friend.”

 

“Yessir.”

 

“He’s an _infant_.”

 

“He’s a teenager,” Steve says, “and in my opinion he’s going to grow into an amazing man.”

 

Howard stares at Steve some more before sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. “An amazing man. Right. Rogers, has Tony been- have you two been doing anything that isn’t of a strictly friendly nature?”

 

Steve balks at the implication. “We- what, no, Jesus. We’re friends, he’s, he’s a _teenager_.”

 

“Hasn’t stopped him before,” Howard says, shrugging. “Have I ever told you about the time I came home to find one of my rookies in bed with my underage son? I think he must have been fifteen at the time, apparently my teenage son seduced a man in his mid-twenties.”

 

Steve shakes his head, tongue thick in his mouth. “No, you- haven’t told me that, sir.”

 

“Well,” Howard says, eyes the same colour but holding none of the warmth as his son’s. “I’d prefer it didn’t happen again. That rookie doesn’t work here anymore, I got him transferred.”

 

“Transferred,” Steve repeats. “Sir, he should have been _arrested_.”

 

“Tony does dumb things to get attention,” Howard says, and then he leaves, his office door closing smoothly behind him like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

 

Steve sits there, pen feeling alien in his hand. _Apparently my teenage son seduced a man in his twenties_. Does Tony- do _this_ , this _thing_ he’s doing with Steve, toying with his feelings until he gets what he wants, for kicks to get his father to notice him for a second?

 

The idea makes him feel sick, physically sick, and for a moment Steve actually considers making a dash for the toilet. But then his stomach settles, and Steve breathes in and out through his nose for a long time.

 

His phone buzzes with a text, and he looks down at it on automatic. It’s Tony, of course it’s Tony, a message asking if he could stay at Steve’s apartment tonight.

 

The urge to throw up returns, and Steve breathes in deep. _I don’t think that’s a good idea,_ he texts back.

 

His phone stays silent for a second, and then it’s buzzing with a new text: _is my dad there?_

 _Yes,_ Steve texts.

 

 _K. Come outside_.

 

Steve does, phone in hand, and he doesn’t have to look far to see Tony. “Jesus,” he gasps, and Tony’s grin is bloody when it comes.

 

“It looks worse than it feels,” Tony assures him, and Steve can’t stop himself from taking Tony’s face in his hands and tilting it sideways, upwards, checking for more wounds.

 

“What happened,” he demands.

 

“Some asshole at school,” Tony sighs. “It’s not a big deal, seriously, but Mom gets crazy when stuff like this happens. Always wants to call the guy’s parents, or something.”

 

 _At least one of your parents cares that much,_ Steve doesn’t say.

 

“And Howard gets pissed off at me for making trouble,” Tony continues, rolling his eyes. Then he frowns. “Steve? You good? I’m the one with the injury here, if anyone should be looking pained, it’s me.” He tries for a laugh, it comes out flimsy.

 

“I’m fine,” Steve says. “I’m- you can stay at mine tonight, it’s fine.”

 

“I’ll take the couch,” Tony assures him, and Steve’s pretty sure his smile looks like a grimace.

 

 

 

 

 

Tony takes the couch, and Steve lies awake half the night, expecting to hear his covers being pulled back, for Tony to say something about being cold, or lonely.

 

He wakes up to his alarm going off, and when he pads out into the lounge, Tony’s sprawled out over the couch, snoring loudly.

 

Steve doesn’t stay to watch him sleep. He thinks that would be reaching new levels of creepy. But he does try to remember how peaceful Tony looks, none of the stress or anger or anything that usually marrs his face when he’s awake.

 

He looks young, when he’s asleep. He always tries to act older than he is, however old that is- older than fifteen, Steve knows- but when he’s asleep, he looks young, not awake to pretend otherwise.

 

 

 

 

 

They start going on stakeouts when they finally land a few suspects. Most of them turn out uneventful, and the third time they try, Tony throws Steve’s coffee out the window and doesn’t shut up until Steve drives to a coffee shop to buy them ‘decent coffee.’

 

“You’re a brat,” Steve tells him when they return to their stakeout, and Tony grins at him and licks foam from the brim of his styrofoam cup.

 

After that, they agree that Tony brings the coffee on stakeouts.

 

 

 

 

 

They start getting closer to the killer, and Steve thinks they have their guy- Alexander Peirce, a forcibly retired navy vet living in Brooklyn who now owns a boating shop and a freaky coin collection. They don’t have any proof yet, or at least nothing that a jury will convict him for, but they’re getting there.

 

He’s stretched thin, barely sleeping at this point, and Tony shows up one day after school, sees him and grabs the coffee out of his hands.

 

“Hey,” Steve protests.

 

Tony rolls his eyes and drags Steve away, down the hall to the cot is where overworked cops sleep sometimes. “Sleep, Steve.”

 

Steve sits on the cot instead, too worked up to lie down. “He kills someone new every week, Tony. We have two days before he does it again.”

 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

 

Steve huffs a laugh, and then sighs. “He’s playing with us.”

 

“Mm.” Tony sits down next to him and the cot creaks with the added weight. “Asshole does love his party tricks. He’s getting more and more creative with how he’s skating circles around us.”

 

Steve opens his mouth, and Tony covers it with his hand. Steve grunts against his palm, considering licking it.

 

“Go. To. Sleep,” Tony tells him. “I’ll stay here all night if I have to, yelling at you to sleep.”

“Yelling at me to go to sleep probably wouldn’t help me sleep,” Steve points out after Tony’s removed his hand from his mouth. His eyes are drooping, though, and Tony smiles.

 

“I could sing you a lullaby, if you want.”

 

“No lullabies,” Steve says, and yawns widely. Tony shoves lightly at him until he lies down and then sits near his feet, back against the wall.

 

“Just- talk,” Steve tells him, and Tony pauses.

 

“What about?”

 

“Anything. First thing that pops into your head.”

 

“When I was twelve, I made a really dumb robot,” Tony starts, and Steve laughs quietly into what could probably be called a pillow if he squinted.

 

He falls asleep to the lilting sound of Tony’s voice, and when he wakes up in the morning, hard and trying to hide it, Tony is asleep, snoring, his head pillowed on Steve’s stomach.

 

Steve sucks in a breath and moves carefully out from under him.

 

 

 

 

Tony starts staying over at Steve’s more often, and eventually Steve stops expecting anything. The only thing he gets is the sight of Tony snoring on the couch when he goes to check on him in the morning, and Steve never stays to watch, always continues into the kitchen with hardly a glance, but it doesn’t help. The image of Tony sleeping, his hair messy and his arm thrown over his eyes, is glued to the black of Steve’s eyelids.

 

 

 

 

 

“We got another letter from the Brooklyn Strangler,” Sam tells Steve gravely, and Steve rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands.

 

“Shit. Yeah, okay, open it,” Steve says, and Sam nods and peels it open. He skims it, his face going carefully blank as he does, and that’s what lets Steve know something’s really wrong.

 

“Sam? What is it?”

 

“It’s- it’s, uh, to you,” Sam says, and Steve all but snatches it out of his hands.

 

In cliche, blocky letters cut out of a magazine, the letter reads:

 

_‘He’s far too young for you, rookie Rogers._

 

_I’m doing him and you a favour by doing this.’_

 

Steve hears Sam say his name, he distantly hears Danvers ask what’s wrong, and Steve is gasping for breath, sucking it through his teeth as he fumbles for the edge of his desk. His hand knocks into it, gripping it, and Sam grabs his shoulder.

 

“Steve, we’ll-”

 

“Find him,” Steve grits out, unsure if he’s having a panic attack, because hes never experienced this much _anger_ in a panic attack. Fear, yes- the fear is normal with this, the fear sets his veins on fire with it, but it’s the anger that makes him shake with this one. “God, we have to-”

 

“He kills them five hours after we get the letter,” Sam says. “We got five hours, Steve, we can do this.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve gasps. “Yeah.” He straightens, and Sam’s hand squeezes on his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

They phone Howard, inform him of the situation, and Steve listens numbly as his chief tells him that he has the utmost faith in him and that he’s sure they can handle it themselves.

 

“You’re not coming,” Steve says, cutting his chief off.

 

Howard pauses. It’s long, too long, and they don’t have the time. “Rogers. I trust you to do your damn job, I trust you to get my son home. There’s nothing I could do by taking a plane back to New York-”

 

“You’re not coming,” Steve says, louder. “God damn you. Your SON is being held HOSTAGE by the guy we’ve been hunting for months, the guy you know is going to TORTURE your son, and your goddamn MEETINGS are more important.”

 

“Rogers,” Howard says, sounding pissed off this time, but Steve doesn’t care, slams the phone down and turns to address the room.

 

“I’m the cop assigned to this case,” he says. “We have four and a half hours until T- until the hostage runs out of time. Let’s move it, people.”

 

“Not your most inspiring speech,” Natasha says, and Steve loves her for it, for the dry sarcasm, for treating him like he isn’t breaking to bits behind his exterior.

 

“Less talking, more tracing his cellphone,” Steve tells her, and she nods. It’s useless, their cellphones are always at home where he abducted them from, and Steve is clenching his jaw so hard it hurts when he remembers.

“Romanoff,” he snaps, and her head comes up. “Would you be able to track another device?”

 

“Depends what it is, Rogers.”

 

“How about a tracking device some guy swallowed?”

 

Sam cocks his head at them. “The killer swallowed a tracking device?”

 

“Tony did,” Steve corrects him. “When we started to get letters, I convinced Tony to keep a tracking device with him. Tony didn’t want to be tracked, but he agreed to build one that only worked when introduced to human saliva. He said he’d keep it on him at all times, and swallow it if something ever happened.”

 

Looks are exchanged. Sam whistles, long and low. “Mini-Stark built that?”

 

“He’s a smart guy,” Steve says. “I’ve got the signal you’d have to lock onto on my computer, I’ll email it to you, Nat.”

 

She nods, a short duck of her head. Steve sends the email and her fingers work furiously over the keys for around thirty seconds as Steve looks over her shoulder.

 

“I got him,” she says, a map coming up with a bright blinking light on it, and Steve exhales.

 

 

 

 

 

They drive to a summer house near the sea, and Steve stares at the clock more than the road until Sam snaps and tells him to pull the hell over so he can drive.

 

Steve leads them in, guns drawn, feet silent on the wooden floor until they’ve checked all the rooms but one.

 

Steve kicks it in. “NYPD, put your hands on your head-”

 

It’s who they thought it was, the ex-navy vet, the one they’ve talked to twice now, and he’s sweating hard and holding Tony by the throat. He squeezes, and Tony has blood on his lips as he makes a pained noise, eyes bulging, and Steve raises his gun and shoots Alexander Peirce between the eyes.

 

He drops, body hitting the floor, and Steve sprints over him so he can undo the ropes that Tony has around his neck, wrists and feet. Tony slumps into his hands, and Steve tries not to stop them from shaking.

 

“You’re okay,” Steve tells him. “You’re okay, you’re fine, I got you, you’re okay.”

 

He undoes the last of the ropes and Tony is wheezing, wheezing and clutching Steve and sobbing, coughing blood throughout it, and Steve holds him and strokes his hair and tells him he’s fine.

 

He asks Tony if he can stand, and Tony nods and is on his feet for less than a second before he spits, “ _Fuck_ ,” and his left leg gives underneath him.

 

He falls towards Peirce, and Steve catches him and steadies him. “Hey, hold onto me, okay?”

 

Tony nods, and Steve lifts him onto his back so Tony’s arms wrap around his shoulders. Steve puts one hand on the arms circling his neck and uses the other to keep Tony’s uninjured leg wrapped around his waist.

 

He piggybacks Tony through the house and out the door to where an ambulance is waiting to load him into the back on a gurney.

 

Tony protests the gurney, but Steve urges him in. “They just want to check you over.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Sure, apart from the possibly broken leg, the multiple cuts, the rope burn and the oxygen loss, you’re dandy,” Steve deadpans, and Tony laughs and then winces.

 

“And hurt ribs,” Steve adds.

 

“I might’ve struggled,” Tony admits, and Steve laughs weakly into his hair. “Yeah, I bet you did.”

 

They load him into the van after getting him to lie down on the gurney, and Tony frowns. “Aren’t you coming?”

 

Steve needs to do paperwork. He needs to talk to Alexander Peirce’s family. He needs to do a lot of things, but he says, “Of course,” and they let him sit next to Tony and hold his hand the whole way there, even after the painkillers knock Tony out.

 

Steve sits and strokes Tony’s hand, strokes his fingers over the marks over Tony’s wrists where Peirce tied him up.

 

 

 

 

 

Steve finally meets Maria Stark, who is cold and distant and the hug she gives her son is awkward, but he can tell the tears she’s holding back are real, that she does love her son, even if she’s bad at showing it.

 

“Thank you,” she says to Steve out in the hall, not looking at him. She has the same nervous tic Tony has, she taps her fingers against whatever’s closest. “Thank you for bringing him back safely. He- he talks about you. Not that we talk much, but when we do- he talks about you.”

 

“He talks about you, too.”

 

She laughs, and it sounds just like Tony’s fake laughs. “Oh, I doubt it. I’m not very- maternal. But I’m, I’m glad he has you.” Her breathing is shallow, and her hair is perfectly in place, and her nails are done in white. “You aren’t like that rookie we found him rolling around in our bed with a few years back, are you?”

 

“He did that in _your_ bed,” Steve blurts before he can stop himself, and she titters.

 

“Oh, yes. And it certainly got our attention, since that was what he was trying to do all along. But that’s not you, I don’t think. He isn’t doing all of this because of us, he’s doing this for himself.”

 

She pauses, her lips parted. “Do take care of him, Steve. He is worlds more fragile than he presents himself.”

 

She spares him another vague smile, and then she sighs. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to leave before my _dear_ husband arrives.” She smiles at the look he gives her, and this time it’s more like the ones Tony pulls.

 

“You remind me of Tony,” Steve finds himself saying.

 

“Thank you,” she replies after a moment. “It was- well, it was certainly an experience meeting you, Steve. I expect I’ll be seeing more of you.”

 

She walks off, high heels loud on the hospital floor, and Steve goes back to Tony.

 

 

 

 

 

Tony wakes up every few hours, slurring and reaching for Steve or food or both.

 

“You’ll be out and annoying the Nine-Nine in a few days, Tony, breathe,” Steve tells him as he feeds him jello, and Tony’s laugh is painkiller-hazy.

 

 

 

 

On the second day, Tony wakes up grinning.

 

“What,” Steve asks.

 

“We caught the bad guy,” Tony says, turning to him. He laughs. “Steve, we caught the damn bad guy! We’re heroes!”

 

“Big damn heroes,” Steve agrees, and Tony giggles until it sets Steve off, and they laugh until they’re breathless with it.

 

“Hey,” Tony says, and Steve says, “Mm,” suddenly aware of how close they are since Steve bent forwards in his chair to hear him better.

 

Tony’s pupils are wide and glassy. “Just so you know, if you’re not into this, I’m totally blaming it on painkillers,” and then he’s lurching forwards and kissing Steve.

 

It’s dry, both of their lips are chapped, but Tony swipes his tongue along Steve’s mouth and then things are better. Tony’s nose is cold when it bumps into Steve’s cheek, and that’s what snaps Steve out of it. He makes a noise into Tony’s mouth and pulls back.

 

Tony says, “Ugh, what,” opening his eyes, and Steve looks at him.

 

“Tony, I’m twenty-four. How old are you?”

 

“I’m eighteen in three weeks.”

 

Steve snorts. “Right.”

 

“Hand to god,” Tony says. “Seriously, ask my Mom. Check my records.”

 

Steve hums, and Tony leans in like he wants to feel the vibration against his lips. Steve leans back, and Tony sighs. “Steve.”

 

“Tony.” Steve links their fingers together, rubbing the healing marks on his wrist. “You know I care about you. But you’re a lot younger than me, and I don’t want to do anything that will-”

 

“One of my parents told you about the rookie I slept with, didn’t they.”

 

“Both of them.”

 

“Bastards.”

 

Steve shrugs. “I like your Mom.”

 

“Tha-”

 

“She reminds me of you.”

 

Tony’s mouth twitches. “Thanks.” He squeezes Steve’s hand. “This isn’t like that. I- care about you, too. This isn’t something to piss my parents off or make people look at me, this is about me liking you a lot and wanting to be with you. And I think that’s the most mature thing I’ve ever said and I’m _really_ high right now.”

 

Steve sniggers at the look on Tony’s face, and kisses his nose. “I didn’t know your birthday was in three weeks.”

 

“Yep. On the 29th.”

 

“We’ll have to do something.”

 

Tony grins, and Steve snorts. “Not _that_.”

 

“Why not? I’ll be legal.”

 

“Maybe I want to take this slow.”

 

“I can do that,” Tony says after a moment, and Steve laughs.

 

“That looked like it was really hard to say.”

 

“It was,” Tony says. “You’re really hot. And strong. And _hot_ , wow, your arms,” he sighs, and lifts his free hand to squeeze Steve’s bicep. “And your face. And- everything.”

 

“Mm, back at you.”

 

Tony gasps. “Oh my god, you’re flirting with me. I need an adult, stranger danger, I NEED AN ADULT,” he calls, and then grimaces at Steve’s expression. “Not funny, huh?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Tony shrugs. “Fair enough. So, we’re doing the slow thing.”

 

“Yep.”

 

He cocks his head. “But we’re still doing this?”

 

“If you want.”

 

“ _If you want_ ,” Tony parrots, rolling his eyes. “God, I have no idea why I love you when you’re such  moron.”

 

Steve can’t help the grin that spread over his face. “Probably the same reason I love you.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It’s ‘cause we’re both so hot,” Steve says, kissing Tony’s nose again, and Tony laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

Tony gets out of hospital, gets driven home by his mother, and Steve isn’t surprised to find him sitting in the spare desk chair when he comes into work the next day.

 

“Just FYI,” Tony says when Steve sits down at his desk, “I’m going to be hanging around until I’m old enough to join the force officially. You’re going to solve so many cases with my help and I’m going to graciously let you have all the glory, because that’s how much I love you.”

 

Steve kisses his nose, and then presses a quick kiss to his mouth, grinning when Tony whines when it doesn’t last longer.

 

“I’m looking forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> from this [500 word drabble](http://theappleppielifestyle.tumblr.com/post/89510924471/what-do-you-think-about-an-au-where-howard-stark-is-the) I wrote one time that got really out of hand.
> 
> here's my [tumblr](http://theappleppielifestyle.tumblr.com/).


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